His Reflection in Metal
by TornadoSoup
Summary: With what looks like the End finally looming from every direction, Ghirahim is forced to reflect on his past. Set after Skyward Sword. One Shot (that may one day be multi-chapter)


**AN: Hello everybody!**

 **So.**

 **This is an ollldd piece of writing that I've just rediscovered on my old pc: the first chapter to a multi-chapter Ghirahim origin fic I wrote years ago - it was meant to serve as a prequel/sequel backstory for Skyward Sword and Ghirahim (as well as the Ghirahim in my own story, _Downward Sword_ , to explain why he's so soft/OOC throughout that fic - though you don't need to have read that to understand _His Reflection in Metal_ )**

 **Reading back on all of it now, this first chapter is the only one I remotely like so I will warn you now that this ends on a bit of a cliffhanger and I'm currently not keen on sharing the whole fic. Still, I thought I'd put something on here to prove I'm still active. One day I will finish my other stories! Hopefully this summer. I miss writing!**

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 **Prologue**

It takes a few seconds for Ghirahim to come to his senses.

As his vision focuses, he sees that the earth in front of him is now charred, roasted by the magic that he'd evaded only just in time. There are a few blades of grass that remain on the edge of the new clearing, now on fire, curling and blackening in the heat as it envelopes them.

His eyes, almost as dark as the ground - tired, charred brown - peer up in a sort of daze at the assailant. The person in question towers over Ghirahim as they step closer, eyes burning with a white-hot hatred.

Ghirahim actually feels disappointed.

"How long has it been, Sky Child?" He asks, trying to keep his tone nonchalant and immediately failing; the strain in his voice from his exhaustion is obvious as soon as the words leave his mouth. He's drained, physically and emotionally, and he's thirsty. He coughs.

The man standing over him says nothing. Ghirahim could almost laugh, except this has become increasingly frustrating over the years and he no longer finds it amusing. That judging silence. It weighs down his body like heavy armour, constricting him. Although, that feeling could be coming from the discomfort of having a sword being pointed at his face.

Ghirahim eyes the blade, so much weaker than the one this human had wielded years ago, but still sharp and threatening. He no longer has the life security of being bound to an inanimate object, something that cannot die, and is ashamed to feel his heart quicken in apprehension as his eyes roll up to meet his captor's.

They're such an intense, dark blue. Like the ocean during a storm or the eastern sky as the sun sets over the desert, these eyes are cold and merciless. Not unlike Ghirahim, the man before him has become jaded. There is no hint of mercy in those eyes, no reluctancy to run the former Demon Lord through with this sword if need be.

So why hasn't he struck?

"Enjoying the view?" He says provocatively, and now he's glaring up at his rival. He could use his magic to get away, he's done it before, but for some reason he doesn't seem to have the energy this time around. They'd been at this for years; just when Ghirahim thought that he'd given the other the slip in order to wreak havoc in peace, this boy would show up - stoic and almost menacing (if it weren't for his embarrassing stature), ready to end his life.

The man seems to regard him for a long moment, both of them staring each other down. Ghirahim refuses to look away, not when this could be his last moment. He's exhausted, and not as alive as he used to be, but that doesn't mean he can't leave this world with dignity.

Link inhales, lips parted. For a second he really does look like a child again, his features soften from the tiredness he's undoubtedly feeling, too, and the coldness of his eyes are hidden as he closes them. But then he exhales, sighing, and he looks older than he's ever been.

It makes Ghirahim feel _ancient_.

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"I'm sealing you away, demon."

The words rang out clearly amongst the clamour of the battlefield. Hylia's presence was like a light in a field of darkness - brilliantly and terrifyingly blinding, too bright for the inhabitants used to a life of shadow. She conjured several liquid-silver ribbons, winding up out of the ground like serpents, that wrapped themselves around Demise's limbs before he could so much as flinch.

The Demon King looked up at the White Goddess with black fire in his eyes, struggling against his bonds, opening his mouth to curse her when his heels suddenly slipped under the earth's surface.

Ghirahim watched in horror as his side essentially lost, their leader becoming buried alive by dirt and ethereal magic. This was the first time in years that he felt frozen, fixed to the spot and helpless to do anything.

He felt the pain before he noticed the hand pointed at him, not humanoid and feminine, but scaled and black, with claws at the fingertips. Ghirahim felt those fingers grip his heart from afar and yank him forward, excruciating, merciless, as the other hand lifted a sword to point at him.

Ghirahim's eyes widened, mouth getting drier as he realised what was happening. He was going to be sealed away with _Him_ , for eternity, and who would ever wish that upon anyone?

He struggled. He dug his heels into the ground, he screamed as the tip of the blade pierced his chest and his physical form exploded, becoming absorbed by its sword vessel.

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He wasn't sure how long it had been.

"Hylia is dead," Demise's voice growled, triumphant but bitter. Frustrated. "I ended the life of the White Goddess, and this is my reward."

His voice rang out through the void, inside Ghirahim's head and yet so far away. Each syllable crept up on him like a storm; the hint of a whisper before the words would crash into him like falling trees. They held all the power of a hurricane, as terrifying to witness as it was to dwell in this dark echo of reality where they had been sealed together by Hylia.

Ghirahim wished he could close his eyes, but he didn't seem to have any here. Blackness was his sight and sound. He tasted nothing. He could only feel the dark, like a case around his shapeless form.

"You did nothing to stop her."

Ghirahim's smoke-mind swirled in a panic, even in this vacuum where nothing could happen to him. He said nothing, caught out already for the grave error he had made.

"Forgive me, my King-"

"Grovelling will only waste more time, Wrath." Demise interjected. Something seemed to seep into the void as he spoke, thinner than smoke, almost invisible, but it almost felt like a draft.

"If you want to live when I leave this prison, you will do as I say in this instant."

And with those words, Ghirahim actually felt something - a nausea-inducing tugging at his spirit (his mind? his body?) that almost sounded like ripping fabric or the crashes of some great river, flooding through a land that could not hold it. Ghirahim _felt_ it - his whole form came into being again and was simultaneously destroyed - he screamed, just before his mouth evaporated off his face and he tried to curl in on himself before his limbs were taken away as well.

Black turned to green.

Pain turned to an adrenaline-fuelled pulse of relief.

He was kneeling on a patch of grass.

Ghirahim blinked tears out of his eyes and as his vision cleared he could make out a small stone pillar - a sacred sealing spike - looming right over him, the crests of the Golden Goddesses etched into its surface.


End file.
